


The Bastard Who Would Be King

by LustOnMyFingers



Series: A Love Undying [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Because season eight never happened, Breast Play, Crack, Cuddling, F/M, Featuring the Jon Snow we fell in love with seasons 1-7, First Time, Fluff, Foreplay, House of the Undying, Humor, Loss of Virginity, Magic, Older Woman/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Romance, Seduction, Shade of the Evening, Song inspo: Ibeyi - Faithful, Time Travel, Woman on Top, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25686280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers
Summary: After learning that her husband paid a visit to a past version of herself by way of a magical vision—Daenerys returns to the House of the Undying to test her own luck as she sets off on a journey of her own. On the cold night of the Usurper's welcoming feast at Winterfell, the queen finally stumbles across Jon—stubborn, prickly, and nearly two decades her junior.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: A Love Undying [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635799
Comments: 96
Kudos: 264





	The Bastard Who Would Be King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTarg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTarg/gifts).



> Dedicated to [LadyTarg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTarg/), since you were such a big fan of part 2! Please do not feel *any* obligation to read this installment, just know that my love and respect for you and your events helped me push through and finish this fic and get it posted ( _late_ , but posted nonetheless). A special thanks, as well, to my three wives for listening to me drone on about this fic, helping me keep the steam for it. ♥
> 
> A late entry, intended to be published for [Jonerys Week 2020](https://iceandfiresource.tumblr.com/post/621031818710466560/jonerys-week-2020-the-dream-of-spring-event-in-the), for the Free Choice prompt. (Hey, maybe it's still Sunday somewhere?)
> 
> Reading parts one and two are not necessary unless you require the full explanation on how or why Daenerys ended up in the past with Jon. Otherwise, all you really need to know before going into this one is that Jon has met with a young Daenerys, that this magic is happening within the House of the Undying in Qaarth, where they're celebrating ten happy, wedded years together as king and queen.
> 
>  **Trigger warning:** The Jon in this story is the same as was featured in the pilot episode of season one. Meaning that, while of age in Westeros, he is at or below the legal age of consent across much of planet earth. You've been warned.

* * *

The couple sat at the edge of the peristyle, Qartheen nobles mingling in the courtyard just beyond them. Jon hadn't touched more than a bite or two from the plate in front of him, so lost in thought that even the bare-breasted women weaving through the fountains had failed to make him blush.

"You miss her."

The queen's words seemed to pull her husband from another time and place, altogether.

"Aye," he confirmed. Jon blinked his surroundings into focus, his eyes quickly darting away from the unabashed women flitting about.

From across the table, he grasped his wife's hand. Since his return so late into the night, he'd scarcely let go of her at all.

"Even after our time in Pentos with the children, retracing your steps, I-" he paused to grimace. "I didn't understand."

The queen stroked his hand with her thumb.

His obsidian eyes turned glassy. "I had to see it to know."

Daenerys granted him another few moments with her hand before attempting to retrieve it to finish breaking her fast. He didn't let go.

"She isn't gone, my love," she explained. "She sits in front of you now."

Still, he gave a pained smile.

"She really got to you, didn't she? I haven't heard you gripe about the heat once this morning," she commented. "Even as we drip with sweat, you won't let go."

Reluctantly, he lifted his hand from hers.

"I wasn't complaining," she added. "It's just..."

He met her eyes. "What?"

"I wouldn't expect a naive little girl to have impacted you so strongly."

" _Brave_ ," he quickly corrected. "Not naive."

Something in his sudden defensiveness filled her with a sensation so unfamiliar, she couldn't quite place the feeling at first.

"I'm unsure whether to be jealous or flattered."

Her admission managed to wriggle a small snicker from him. " _Jealous_? What of?"

"Seeing my husband so entranced by a younger woman, I suspect."

"Except that the younger woman is _yourself_ ," he reminded. "Or have you forgotten why you've dragged me to Qarth at all?"

Daenerys chuckled, taking Jon's hand herself, this time.

"Besides," he continued, "I've been less stressed during some battles than I was when I took your maidenhead. It's not a taste I'm like to acquire."

The queen's eyes went wide, surprising even herself as a sputter of laughter escaped from her lips. "You did _what_?"

Immediately, the king flushed.

"How in seven hells did you manage to convince me?"

"I didn't have to," he said with a sudden, smug grin. "You asked me to."

"I scarcely knew what taking a man to bed even _meant_ ," she scoffed.

Jon only shrugged, leaning forward to retrieve a goblet with his free hand, taking a swig of spiced wine.

"I have half a mind to march back to that tower and find you as a young boy so I can return the favor."

"Good luck with that," Jon said, this time taking a long gulp. "You'll need it."

"Is that so?"

"My virtue was very important to me."

Daenerys popped a grape into her mouth with her left hand, considering as she chewed. "What about the one before me?"

She had regretted the words in an instant—for the king slipped yet further into his sullenness as he recalled the memory of his first love. "Had my life not depended on arousing no suspicion," he finally said, "I would have declined her. Just as I had declined women that came before and after."

"Until me," she proudly professed.

"Until you," he agreed, giving her clammy hand another squeeze. His lips curled into a wistful smile. "My heart never stood a chance."

The queen wore a sly grin. "Then perhaps, like you, I will fare better against your young heart than you expect," she wagered.

"You make it sound like a bet."

This time, Daenerys grabbed the stem of her goblet, raising a cheeky brow as she sipped from its rim.

"I would _never_."

. . .

For the second time during their trip to Qaarth, Daenerys found herself wandering through the small forest of black and blue, the dark trees like the ghosts of weirwoods—and watching her with just as many eyes. Though she had picked her warmest dress, she shivered. The residue of bitter-yet-sweet blue wine sat on her tongue like a cloth upon a table.

She would see him soon. Seventeen years ago.

Though she hadn't been altogether serious that morning, about traveling back to meet the boy who would become her husband—something about seeing Jon more forlorn today than in all their years together told her that she had to know why.

Together, they reached the steps of the ruined stone tower.

"Kiss me goodbye?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Jon scrunched his nose. If only the king knew how sweet his sneer was, he'd know why she couldn't resist using the endearment. 

Afraid to squander even a drop of the wine, Daenerys merely pecked his lips—after all, she'd see him again in an hour or two. The queen looked up toward the tower, the strange oval face staring down at her.

It was time.

She turned back to Jon.

"You'd better go," he said.

Dany nodded, swiftly climbing the steps and passing through the carved door as it swung open.

Inside, a lit torch hung from the wall. Quickly, the queen retrieved it and set forth, through the entrance hall and through a small, dark corridor.

The air grew cool and crisp the further she wandered inside. There was a strange thudding sound—the beat of it so inconsistent she couldn't quite place what it was but she knew she had heard it before. With each step forward, the thump grew louder.

In the distance, she saw another light—a brazier, perhaps. Unsure where, exactly, she would end up—she discarded her torch and moved through the darkness until she passed underneath a familiar stone arch. Her breath misted in the air, and all around her, it smelled like smoke.

The beating sound started again, only this time, there was a dull clink of metal with every thud. When she reached the other side of the arch, the shock of what she saw there felt like having the wind knocked from her lungs.

There he was.

Taking his frustration out on a training dummy with the unsharpened skill of a boy—but skill nonetheless. His dark curls bounded with his every strike, his hair more closely-cropped than she had ever seen it before.

_Gods_ , just the sight of him exhilarated her, heart hammering against her ribs.

Just as soon as she worked up the nerve to approach him, a horse came galloping in from the gate beyond. Daenerys paused, drawing her hood closely around her hair before dipping into the shadows of the nearby armory.

The man atop the steed, draped head-to-toe in black, turned his attention on Jon, shouting after the boy.

"Is he dead yet?"

Jon turned as the man dismounted—finally revealing his youthful face, which broke into a wide, genuine smile—completely unobstructed by his usual beard. This boy was the marble from which her current husband and king had been chiseled.

Daenerys couldn't help but match his grin.

_Beautiful_.

"Uncle Benjen," he greeted.

_Benjen_ , Dany perked up, for this man had been the namesake of her second son, and he meant a great deal to Jon, she knew, all the more apparent by the boy's bellow of joyful laughter as the men embraced.

"You got bigger," his uncle commented, clapping Jon's back. "I rode all day—didn't want to leave you alone with the Lannisters."

Daenerys smiled. She liked the man already.

"Why aren't you at the feast?"

Jon gulped, his eyes falling. "Lady Stark thought it might insult the royal family to seat a bastard in their midst."

The sadness in his voice alone gave her half a mind to march into the Great Hall and confront the wretched woman, herself. Instead, she exhaled, watching as Benjen gave an unsurprised nod.

"Well, you're always welcome on the wall," he said. "No bastard was ever refused a seat there."

The invitation lifted Jon's expression. "So take me with you when you go back," he said, the desperation in his voice striking a lonely chord within her—except, for all the years she had dreamt of going home, Jon had dreamt of fleeing his.

"Jon," Benjen hesitated.

"Father will let me if you ask him, I know he will."

"The Wall isn't going anywhere."

"I'm ready," Jon nodded, "To swear your oath."

His uncle sighed. "You don't understand what you'd be giving up. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons."

"I don't care about that," Jon insisted quickly.

Her heart gave a pang of grief at her husband's resounding declaration—weighing it against the words of the man who had cornered her in the Dragonpit so many years ago, insisting her family had not seen its end. She remembered how her heart thumped in her chest as he stepped toward her, how hard she had tried to keep her composure as his coal-dark eyes swept over her body. That, unbeknownst to her in that moment, his words were no simple comment, but a _promise_.

She thought of her sons then, Aemon and Ben—imagining a lonely world where, had Jon stuck to his convictions, they would have never been born, nor would their three daughters. The thought of it alone made her stomach go sour. She wondered whether or not Jon had ever considered fatherhood prior to this moment, or if the judgments he had faced all his life for his father's perceived misdeeds had stripped him of all hope before it even had a chance to bloom within him.

"You might," Benjen said. "If you knew what it meant."

Jon and his uncle exchanged a long look. The queen found herself wondering then, just how much his uncle knew. If when he looked at Jon he saw Ned's eyes peering back at him—or Lyanna's.

"I'd better get inside. Rescue your father from his guests." The man clapped his nephew on either arm. "We'll talk later."

Jon stood there, alone and frowning as his uncle walked away, his breath misting in the cool night air.

Daenerys simply watched him, waiting for the sound of Benjen's footsteps to fade before making her approach.

Just as Jon turned, another voice called out to him.

"Your uncle's in the Night's Watch."

_Tyrion_ , the queen's lip twitched with irritation as she recognized the voice.

Jon approached the dwarf, asking, "What are you doing back there?"

"Preparing for a night with your family," he answered, bringing a flask to his lips. He leaned against a nearby post and faced Jon. "I've always wanted to see the Wall."

"You're Tyrion Lannister. The queen's brother?"

"My greatest accomplishment," he said solemnly. "You—you're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?

Jon's face twisted into a scowl as he spun and walked away.

"Did I offend you? Sorry," Tyrion slurred, without a lick of apology in his voice. Daenerys rolled her eyes.

Clearly irritated, Jon turned to face him. Tyrion advanced toward the boy again. 

"You _are_ the bastard, though."

"Lord Eddard Stark is my father," Jon confirmed.

Quietly, Daenerys slipped out from the shadows to inch closer, though took care to remain hidden as she listened in—Jon's soft voice a bit hard to hear so far away.

"And Lady Stark is not your mother. Making you _a bastard_."

When she had to watch Jon frown again, she wondered how much more of it she could take.

"Let me give you some advice, bastard," Tyrion continued. "Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor. Then it can never be used to hurt you."

Jon scowled. "What the hell do you know about being a bastard?"

"All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes."

Tyrion raised the flask to his lips as he turned and walked away.

Perturbed by the exchange, Jon bent to retrieve his sword. Dany watched as he squared his shoulders, each exhale forming its own frail white cloud. With a heavy swing, the blade came crashing down on the dummy with all-new ferocity.

Daenerys emerged slowly from the shadows, taking care to keep her footfalls silent so as not to startle him. Her hands shook at her sides, heart thudding like every dull thwack made against the defenseless dummy.

The queen broke into a cold sweat. She had faced horrors beyond all imagination. Yet here she was—petrified to face this young boy.

Jon's movements came to a sudden halt, his head angling toward where she'd stood, perhaps sensing her presence.

Her words caught in her throat as he finally turned.

With a slight furrow on his brow, he met her eyes.

She said nothing.

He said nothing.

Yet there was an intensity to his stare—one that startled her in turn, making her mouth go dry. Daenerys swallowed to wet her tongue, hoping it might urge her to speak.

"May I be of help, my lady?"

His voice was shy, barely above a whisper. It struck her only then—he might just be as nervous as she, standing alone in a dark courtyard across from a strange and dumbstruck woman.

"I could show you to the Great Hall, if it please you?"

She knew exactly where it was, if that's where she had cared to go. And supposing she hadn't known—the cacophony of festive strings and raucous laughter would surely point the way. And yet, sweetly, he offered his help all the same.

"I've never been one for big feasts."

"How come?"

"Well," she scraped her mind for the best way to explain it. "Have you ever felt alone in a crowded room?"

"All the time," he admitted.

"I had a feeling you might."

When she smiled at him, Jon turned timid and looked away.

"Seeing as we both feel alone, we might as well be lonely together," she suggested. "What do you say?"

The invitation drew his eyes back to hers.

"What did you have in mind, my lady?"

"Well," she considered. "You could start by calling me Dany."

"Dany," he repeated. "That's pretty."

"What's your name?"

"Jon," he answered confidently. "Jon Snow."

"A strong name," Dany commented. "It suits you."

_Much more than your given name_.

So unaccustomed to receiving compliments, Jon pressed his lips together—though if it was to smother a glower or perhaps a smile, she couldn't quite tell.

"A bastard's name," he said after a moment.

The queen wondered then, if ever a day had gone by that he was allowed to forget the stain on his name. Somehow, she thought not.

"There's no shame in bastardy, Jon," she softly said. "A child should never be punished for his father's sins."

The smile that her words had wriggled from him was not a happy one. "Mind telling that to the rest of the world?"

"I'm still working on that," she admitted.

Jon gripped the sword at his side, slipping straight into his melancholy.

"Might I ask your age?"

He didn't look at her when he answered. "Sixteen."

"Well, you know what they say about bastards..."

"I _do_ , in fact," he snapped. "Whatever it is, I've heard it all."

"Bastards grow up a great deal faster than other children."

His gaze whipped straight to hers, then.

"In many ways, I suspect a bastard of sixteen is more insightful than even a lord of twenty-six."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "How's that?"

"The true character of a man is revealed in the way he treats those from which he gains nothing," she explained. "And in that way, you may know even the king better than his most loyal subjects."

His lips twisted into an irritable smirk as he took a few steps closer, close enough that she could smell the rich leather of his doublet.

"May I speak frankly?" His voice was soft and smooth, without yet a trace of its usual grit. His closeness made her shiver.

She nodded. "Always."

"I mean no offense, my lady," he began. "I appreciate your kindness, but in my experience, it always comes at a cost. One that I am in no position to pay."

Jon gave one last nod before turning from her. He drove his sword straight through its rack before walking away without another glance.

With his rejection came a sudden sting of pain, his coldness so foreign to her that for a moment, she simply froze. Until the sight of him walking away became too much for her heart to bear.

"Jon, wait," she begged, but he carried on without her nonetheless.

In one last-ditch effort, she called after him again. "Everything before the word 'but' is horseshit."

The comment stopped him dead in his tracks.

She stepped toward him. "My kindness comes at no cost, Jon Snow," she said. "Though if it did, you have long since paid."

For several torturous moments, Jon remained still as stone.

"If you're suggesting we've met before, my lady," he finally said, "I can promise you that I would remember."

Slowly, he turned—his eyes widening as if he'd caught sight of a ghost.

"Unless," he paused to swallow, "Are you… my mother?"

The queen's heart flooded with an almost regretful sorrow. "No," she whispered. "Though I know that you dream of her often. That in your dreams your mother is beautiful and highborn and kind."

His vulnerability quickly shifted into a glare. "There isn't a soul alive who should know that."

"And for another seven years, there won't be. Not until you decide to tell me," she explained.

"Why seven years?"

"Because that's when we meet."

"I don't understand." Jon raised a hand to rub the crease in his brow. "Are you telling me you've moved through time somehow?"

"I don't think so, no. It's an illusion," she explained. Daenerys wiped a finger across her lips, thankful that there was enough residue left to turn the tip blue. "By way of a warlock's wine known as Shade of the Evening."

Carefully, Jon turned her hand so the torchlight would better catch the peculiar liquid as he examined it.

"You feel awful real for an illusion," he commented.

"So do you."

Caught off-guard by her smile as their eyes met, Jon yanked his hand away from hers. A sudden blush colored his cheeks as he cleared his throat. "You drank this wine knowing it would grant you passage to Winterfell seven years ago?"

"Seventeen years ago, actually," she corrected. "Though Winterfell would not have been my first choice, least of all tonight."

"How come?"

"Despite our friendship, this castle has always been a rather precarious place for me," she admitted.

The queen lowered her hood, letting it fall around her shoulders. His eyes snapped immediately to her unique, silver-pale waves.

"I imagine the Usurper would be none too pleased to know Daenerys Targaryen was afoot."

"Targaryen..." he repeated in a stunned whisper.

Even as a boy of sixteen, the innate pull of him was hard to resist. Especially as he stared, dumbfounded, his plump lips ajar and close enough to kiss. Rather than fluster him further with her staring, or _worse_ , by obeying that pull between them, Daenerys simply flashed a smile before starting off toward the Great Hall.

Luckily, after only a few steps away from him, she heard the fall of his boots behind her.

"My lady," he softly called. "You said you didn't like big feasts..."

Though it hurt to ignore him, she did. She kept on walking.

"Dany?"

This time, she turned.

"Jon."

"The feast is unsafe for you."

"Yes," she said. "I know."

When she started toward the Hall again, Jon shuffled to catch up with her.

"Luckily for me," she nudged his arm. "I have protection."

"My lady, I-"

"Dany," she insisted.

" _Dany_ ," he breathed her name, taking several quick steps in front of her to block her path.

His eyes were as large as a puppy's as he pleaded with her. Luckily for this boy, her husband had trained her well over the last ten years to give in to that exact look whenever he gave it. And so, she hesitated.

"Growing up, you had Old Nan's hearth tales," she began, noticing as he quirked a curious brow at her assertion. "As a girl, the ghoul from my stories was the _Usurper_. He was the ghoul who not only destroyed my family's legacy, but who _murdered_ my br-"

Daenerys clapped a hand over her mouth as if to shield his feelings, but Jon simply stared at her—completely unaware that his true father had fallen at the hands of the Usurper. That Robert Baratheon was, in fact, responsible for his bastardy rather than his uncle Ned.

When she failed to finish the thought, he finally spoke. "I understand," he said, swallowing. "Perhaps if an Other were attending the feast, I might like to see it, too."

Knowing it wouldn't be long before the boy was face-to-face with the likes of _actual_ ghouls, the queen heaved in humorless laughter.

Jon cracked a smile in turn. "I'll take you inside," he conceded, "If you agree to stay beside me."

"Fair terms," she grinned.

The boy took a deep breath, his eyes narrow as he examined her. "Your hood," he nodded.

"Right," she agreed, pulling the fabric up and over her silver hair, slowly, for she had enjoyed the shy drag of his dark eyes over her every feature.

"Follow me," he said, stealing one last look at her lips before turning.

The boy led her around the back of the Great Hall to the servers' entrance. As they made their way through the bustle, Daenerys kept close to Jon as promised. He planted himself behind an iron holder, melted wax hanging from its candles like dripping icicles.

While she felt high on the thrill of both secrecy and an impossible glimpse into the past—it was Jon's outstretched hand that made her heart hammer hardest.

"To keep you safe," he timidly qualified, the color in his cheeks turning from red to pink at the mere implication of their touch.

Daenerys pressed her lips together to hide a smirk. She held his gaze as she slid a palm against his trembling hand, sinking each finger between his—their hands joining perfectly, as if they had been fashioned to fit together.

It was Benjen Stark she first recognized—stationed opposite from where they'd stood at the back of the Hall. Though his hair was lighter, she knew immediately who the man beside him was on their resemblance alone.

"Your uncles," she pointed discreetly.

"Uncle Benjen," he confirmed. "And my father, Lord Stark."

" _Right_ ," she flushed. "He's quite handsome." Daenerys gaped, feeling almost surprised by his good looks based solely on the only image she had ever known of him—the likeness of his effigy in the crypts.

Knowing her husband was prone to jealousy, she angled her head toward him to offer a compliment. "You favor him."

And indeed, he did.

When she turned back, there was a curly-haired boy wrapping his arms around Benjen Stark.

"My brother Robb," Jon offered.

"The Young Wolf," she whispered, feeling suddenly awestruck. For years, Jon's siblings would recount the tales of his glory with such esteem and admiration that Robb Stark felt more like a hero from a storybook and less like a man who had ever actually set foot in Westeros. Yet, like Jon—there he was. Just a boy.

" _The Young Wolf_ ," Jon scoffed, the unfamiliar moniker clouding his tone with envy. "I take it you know him, too?"

"He's a legend," she explained, unable to help but grin at the mere sight of him.

Even now, she could clearly recall the arguments between her husband and his youngest sister, whose belly had swollen with her first child about the same time as Dany's. For what felt like weeks, the pair had fought over who would get to name their first son for their beloved brother.

Though it was their son who had first come howling into the world, in the end, his sister won the naming rights. For the moment Jon took their first son into his arms, there was no name for the boy but Aemon.

A sudden bray of laughter captured her attention, then—redirecting her gaze toward the center of the room. A fat and unkempt man guffawed as he squeezed and pawed at a woman in his lap. If it weren't for the crown on his head, Daenerys would have never guessed him a king.

Perhaps expecting someone more imposing, she frowned.

When the whore in his arms leaned forward for a kiss, she immediately caught sight of another woman glowering just behind them. Seated at the raised table, she was draped in a dress as gold as her tresses, wearing the same queenly mask Daenerys had since perfected.

For a moment, she almost felt sorry for Cersei Lannister—the Usurper's blatant disrespect stoking the wildfire behind her glare. Instinctively, Dany squeezed her husband's hand—the one she married for love rather than duty. Though this boy wasn't yet hers, and so, he didn't yet know to squeeze back. Daenerys tore her gaze from the golden-haired woman to steal a peek of Jon, instead.

When she realized he was purposely obscuring himself behind the iron holder, peering between the candles toward the high table, she shifted her focus back to Cersei. It was only then she noticed the copper-haired woman sat beside her, dressed in a dull dark blue, doing her best to distract the queen from her husband's shamelessness.

"Catelyn Stark," she guessed—the kindness in the woman's face almost enough to betray her true spiteful nature— _almost_.

A young Lady Sansa had stepped before the women in greeting, both blocking Dany's view and giving her the opportunity to check on Jon—whose clammy fingers were still tightly interwoven with hers. His gaze still lingered at the opposite corner of the room, brooding over the ease with which his brother laughed alongside his uncles.

Dany nudged his arm, breaking his focus. His expression softened when his attention shifted back to her.

She nodded toward the Usurper. "Not much of a ghoul, is he?"

Jon smirked, peeling his eyes from her lips as he leaned in, close to her ear. "Or a king," he quietly agreed.

As his gaze wandered just over her head—his face broke into a devious grin. Jon finally let go of her hand to bring it up to his mouth. Using his thumb and forefinger, he whistled.

The high-pitched sound immediately caught the attention of his intended target—a _very_ young Arya Stark. By the looks of it, the girl had been stuffing her spoon with bits of stew, her grey eyes intent on her sister, who had just taken a seat a few tables away.

Dany's eyes shot back to Jon. He mimed a quick crown above his head before dropping his arms to gesture the shape of a big, round belly. Lastly, he pointed straight to the Usurper, whose hands still groped at the whore bouncing in his lap.

In an instant, her head snapped back to her future good-sister, who had complied with her brother's wishes, launching the sopping spoonful right at the _ghoul_.

Daenerys managed to clap a hand over her mouth just in time to disguise a delighted shriek as the wet splatter collided with the Usurper's face, dripping down into his bedraggled beard.

A hand enclosed around her wrist, tugging her away from the sudden chaos and straight for the door from which they'd entered. The last thing Dany could hear was Lady Stark's shrill voice echoing across the Hall, loudly scolding her daughter's brazen behavior.

Jon didn't let go of her wrist until they were not only out of the building, but hidden from view altogether just around the corner—sandwiched between the Great Hall's exterior and the tall granite wall beside it.

Just as soon as the shock of the scene subsided, the pair broke into a bout of quiet laughter.

Without thinking, she lifted a hand to squeeze his upper arm, the simple gesture enough to bring the boy's amusement to an abrupt halt. He cleared his throat, taking several steps back.

"I'm sorry," she frowned. "It's easy to forget that you don't know me yet."

With his expression obscured by the shadows, there was no telling whether or not she had offended him, and if so, just how much.

"I had hoped we might talk," he said. "But not here."

Even in the dark, she could see the white of his outstretched palm. Again, she took his hand and followed him down the narrow and muddy path between the buildings, back in the direction of the courtyard.

They stood in the shadows until a pair of guards passed by, walking out of sight. Quickly, he led them underneath the covered bridge, inside an old storeroom full of dusty baskets, barrels, and sacks of grain. Flames danced in the sconces along the walls, lending just enough light to ward off the darkness.

Intently, Jon watched her every move—his eyes following her hands as she removed her cloak to drape it over several bags before taking a seat.

Once she had settled, he sat on a barrel across from her—mindful to keep a respectful distance.

"How exactly did we meet?"

"I was advised to send for you upon returning to Westeros."

The boy's eyes went wide. " _Me_? Why me?"

"Because I was in need of allies."

The laugh that followed was one that she thankfully hadn't heard in years—one that was dark and self-deprecating. "You must have been quite desperate to seek an alliance with _what_ , a ranger in the Night's Watch, at best?"

"You underestimate yourself, Jon. Luckily, fate has not made the same mistake."

He folded his arms. "What do you mean?"

"That even a bastard can rise high—and not just in the Night's Watch."

"Do I not join them?"

"You do."

"Then who, in seven hells, advised you about _me_?"

Dany couldn't help but smirk as she parted her lips to answer. "Tyrion Lannister, for one."

"The queen's brother? Advised Daenerys _Targaryen_?"

"A lot can change in seven years," she shrugged.

Jon's expression easily hinted that he was not very impressed with her story. Though, at least, he looked quite amused.

"I meet with you at the _behest_ of Lord Tyrion?"

"Certainly not. Your own motivations brought you to my castle."

"Which were what?"

"You meet with me to warn me of a great threat to the North."

Immediately, he was taken aback, his mind awash with sudden worry. "Some sort of rebellion?"

She shook her head. "A threat that stems from north of the Wall."

"Wildlings," he quietly guessed.

Jon nibbled at his bottom lip in contemplation as Daenerys grappled with divulging the full truth. Luckily, he spoke again before she could provide it.

"Every question I ask leaves me with a dozen more."

Timidly, she met his eyes—eyes that held only a fraction of the warmth she was used to, and that seemed to narrow with more suspicion the longer he scrutinized and interrogated her. How she hated being a stranger to him.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"And you came back by seventeen years?"

"Yes."

She couldn't help but notice the slight smirk upon his face as he calculated backward. "You're roughly my age now?"

She nodded.

"Where exactly are you tonight? In my time?"

"In Pentos," she sighed. "Exiled, and preparing to meet my first husband, I suspect."

Jon frowned. And he held the expression for a long and quiet moment.

"I suppose it's just as well," he finally said, his face a familiar pout. "A bastard is no suitable companion for a lady—certainly not a married one."

"If I judged my companions by the standards of others, I doubt I'd have a single friend in all the world."

The queen rose to her feet then, stepping close enough to Jon that she might sweep the curls away from his eyes. "Anyway," she said, voice faltering as he evaded the touch as best he could, "I did not come all this way to listen as you insult yourself."

Jon's glare was almost as penetrating as the question that followed.

"Why did you come, Dany?"

The sudden coolness with which he addressed her—endearment and all—had perturbed Daenerys so much she yanked her hand away and tucked it behind her back, hoping the small effort enough to control the urge to touch him, for this Jon wasn't yet hers.

"The nature of our relationship concerns me," he admitted.

"In what way?"

"The ease with which you touch me."

In all fairness, her husband had warned her that his younger counterpart prized virtue above all, and indeed, she had acted too familiar for his tastes.

"I don't know what sort of man I am seven years from now, my lady, but I am not yet that man," he said, squaring his shoulders proudly. "Oaths are important to me."

"Oaths?" she blinked. " _Which_ oaths?"

" _Yours_. The mention of a first husband implies there came a second," he guessed.

"Indeed, I am married," she admitted after a moment. "Would you like to know what sort of man my husband is?"

"There's no use, my lady," he sighed. "Even if-"

"I would prefer if you called me Dany," she interrupted.

"Dany is _too_ familiar." He paused long enough to glare. "And _even if_ your husband is cruel to you," he continued, "There's no excuse for such behavior."

" _Cruel_ ," she mocked. Daenerys couldn't help but laugh. "I doubt my husband has been cruel a single day in his life but to those who deserved it. And least of all to me."

"He sounds like _quite_ a man," Jon mocked in turn.

"Undeniably," she agreed, with perhaps too much conviction.

"I should never have hoped to prove the reckless nature of bastardy false if I am, in truth, no better."

" _Enough_ ," she snapped, feeling defensive. "There are a great many things you have yet to discover about yourself, that's true—but your good nature isn't one of them. It is as apparent in seventeen years time as it is today."

Jon stirred in a huff, quite unsure what to make of the compliment.

"Rather than make further assumptions, why not ask _who_ my husband is? After all, you know him even better than I."

Her hint did little to enlighten him as Jon instead shook his head in revulsion, placing a hand on his stomach as if to soothe an ache there. "Because I can't bear to hear it."

"Then I shall speak of him of my own free will."

Daenerys couldn't help but soften as the man she loved most in all the world glowered at her, ignorant of the intense love she had harbored for him, exactly the sort which he'd longed for all his life.

If after their first meeting, she had been told the unyielding King in the North would be her great love, she might've laughed.

"He's... stubborn. As the day is long, or _longer_ ," she began, starting with the first quality of his that she had discovered, one she found most insufferable at first but had since grown to appreciate.

"Perhaps rightly so," she confessed with a smile, remembering how silly she had first found his claims when he marched into her throne room, insisting that _dead men_ were their true enemy. "For as much as it pains me to admit—he's seldom wrong."

After all, their five children—the ones that he had insisted would be born of her barren womb—had long since relieved her of any lingering doubt regarding his certainty whenever he chose to invoke it.

"He would never seek to buy one's favor with pretty words, just as one cannot buy his with anything but their decency."

Jon Snow was the only man from whom Daenerys had truly earned his love—while the king had no doubt noticed her comeliness, he was not outwardly impressed by it—taken, instead, with the beauty he found in her heart. Little else had felt so rewarding, perhaps because little else was so genuine as his love.

Inevitably, her mind wandered to the very moment that the depths of his own heart had been revealed—in a patchwork of scars across his chest that proved just what sort of man he was.

By now, Jon had turned away from her, looking rather like he might be sick. Yet she couldn't stop herself as the words kept pouring forth.

"Many refer to my husband as 'Conciliator'. And though he prizes peace," she paused to swallow, reflecting on all the battles that might've taken him from her, both before and after they had met, "He's never shied from facing his adversaries—leading men to glory just as his idol, the Young Dragon, had before him-"

Finally sensing the likeness, Jon met her eyes with reserve and hesitation.

"-wielding a Valyrian sword whose pommel is a great beast, with whom he shares a moniker—The White Wolf."

The boy stared at her, unblinking, eyes wide and alert.

"If there is any recklessness to be found in him, it is not due to his presumed bastardy, but instead, his good heart."

He understood now, she knew. His expression was troublingly indifferent, though his lips trembled as he spoke. "I'm a _deserter_ ," he decried.

Daenerys couldn't help herself from stepping nearer to him again, outstretching a hand to muss his oiled curls in an attempt to lighten his mood.

"That I should recognize you in the courtyard is proof enough that this pretty head is still about your shoulders in seventeen years time," she declared.

Despite his crooked expression, her compliment had colored his cheeks.

"It's not hard to guess why I was spared," he lamented all the same, using both hands to quickly fix his hair. "My father must take pity on me."

"There is no pity to be taken," she said. "The nature of your vows changes by the time we meet."

"How can that be?"

"I don’t wish to bore you with the intricacies of the realm's... political developments when we meet," she gestured loosely about, "But it will look quite different than it does now."

She stepped cautiously closer, placing a thumb under his chin and tilting his head to meet her eyes. "No broken oaths lay along the path to my castle," she assured him, softening her tone further when she spoke again, "Trust that I would not have asked for your hand if it meant compromising your honor."

His eyes went wide, and his body, rigid. The queen dropped her hand, though Jon didn't move his head an inch. Torchlight flickered in his dark eyes, shining with a sudden wetness. Silence stretched between them. Daenerys did not mind, though, for when it came to looking into her husband's eyes, she had all the patience in the world.

He parted his lips to wet them. "You asked for my hand?"

"Indeed I did," she proudly professed.

At first, Jon didn't seem to know what to make of the unusual admission, his eyes darting between hers as if in search of something. After only a moment, his lids grew heavy, gaze drifting from her eyes to her mouth. It was a look that, by now, she knew well, his intentions laid bare as he studied her lips. Daenerys had unveiled herself as the very woman he could kiss without debt of coin or virtue—his _wife_. And if the way he licked his lips weren't indication enough of his interest, the way he inched closer—close enough that she could smell the summerwine on his breath—certainly _was_. Her head spun as he leaned forward.

The touch of his lips was soft and sweet—enough to pull a grateful whimper from her as soon as their mouths were introduced. Absent from his kiss were the usual abrasions from his beard—skin smooth but for his stubble as she lifted a hand to feel his cheek. Though he shivered from her touch, the kiss was cautious and slow, their mouths made to fit together.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a rustling—though dampened by rushes, it was the unmistakable thud of heavy boots.

"Jon?" a voice called. "Are you in there?"

Daenerys opened her eyes. She attempted to pull away from the kiss, lest they be discovered. Jon, however, was most unwilling—his body even sliding from the barrel entirely to chase after her mouth. His hand appeared at her neck, a thumb grazing the lines of her jaw as another whimper escaped her.

"Jon."

This time, the voice was clear and quiet. The pair broke apart in a huff. Daenerys turned her head, spotting the Young Wolf standing in the doorway, blue eyes wide, almost aghast at what he'd discovered.

Jon took a few deep breaths before he spoke. "What is it?"

"I thought I'd…" Robb paused, his eyes flitting curiously between the pair, "...warn you to steer clear of my mother as best you can." He explained, "She suspects you had something to do with Arya's antic."

The queen watched her young husband's expression warp into one of guilt and complicity. She cleared her throat and inquired on his behalf, "Antic?"

Robb smirked. "Lobbed the king with a spoonful of supper."

She and Jon exchanged a quick look, and something about his big and pleading wolf-pup eyes made her sputter with laughter.

Daenerys clapped a hand over her mouth in immediate horror. "Apologies, my lord," she muttered.

After an awkward pause, both boys joined her in chuckling at their king's expense.

"She insists it was Sansa she had meant to hit."

Jon grinned proudly. "If she had aimed for Sansa..."

"...she _wouldn't_ have missed," Robb finished. "Which must be why mother suspects you."

Though he was, in _actuality_ , to blame, Jon's brow furrowed in irritation. Under normal circumstances, he was a good boy, she knew, with zero motivation to offend the king, or _anyone_ , for that matter.

"Jon has been in my company all night," Daenerys spoke up in his defense, simply leaving out the part where they _had_ , in fact, attended the feast.

Robb's eyes swept over her before landing on Jon, who nodded his affirmation.

"Of course," he said. "I'd better get back." And in the blink of an eye, the young lord had vanished.

Wasting no time, Jon leapt forward, taking a brief step outside to grab hold of the heavy wooden door, its rusted hinges squealing as he dragged it shut. He retrieved an old sword from behind a barrel, sliding the blade through the door pull and barring them inside.

Jon turned and let out a sigh. "He thinks you're a whore."

Dany couldn't help but smirk. "So did you."

Jon cringed. "Sorry about that."

She swept her hair over her shoulder, drawing his eyes to her bare neck as she stepped forward. "I don't care what your brother thinks," she confessed. "Tell me what you think."

Jon blinked. "I think you know a lot of things you shouldn't."

His eyes followed hers as she drew nearer.

"What else?"

"I think each thing you say sounds more ridiculous than the last."

Taken aback, Dany stopped in her tracks.

"But I believe you," he added.

She let out a small sigh of relief.

When he spoke again, his voice came softer. "Why me?" he asked. "Why did you ask for my hand?"

The queen took another few steps to bridge the remaining distance between them, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. "Because I love you."

His eyes fell closed.

"There's something I need to ask."

"Ask anything you like."

"How long does this illusion last?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "Perhaps an hour, if we're lucky."

Jon met her gaze and smiled. "I feel lucky."

His eyes fell to her mouth, studying her lips as they parted. Again, he dipped his head to kiss her. With both hands, Daenerys cradled his jaw as their lips moved together. Powerless to the pull of him, she pressed her body to his, the pair thudding against the door, the weight of their bodies testing the strength of his makeshift lock. Pushing hot air through his nose and across her face, Jon's breaths came in quick succession until his hands shot upward, locking around her wrists to hold her still.

Daenerys pulled away to look into his eyes, but they were closed.

"I want to know what it's like to be with someone," he confessed, his breath warm against her lips.

She waited until he opened his eyes to answer him.

"Let me show you."

He gave a timid nod, looking down at their hands as she slid a palm against his, entwining their fingers and pulling him away from the door. The queen led him back toward the sacks of grain over which her cloak was draped.

Jon sat down on it as she stepped out of her boots.

Daenerys touched his awestruck face, running a thumb over his reddened cheeks as she lifted her skirts enough to climb onto his lap. A trembling hand found her hip as she dipped her head, placing a kiss at the edge of his mouth. Jon exhaled as she took tastes all along his jaw to his neck. Upon reaching his ear, she leaned to whisper against it.

"Touch me anywhere you like."

All ten of his fingers were on her in an instant, trailing up to her waist, stopping just under her breasts. She shivered in his lap, the touch sending a chill down her spine. Upon unburying herself from his neck, Jon craned for another kiss. The queen happily obliged, sinking her hands into his hair. His palms slid back down her body, straight over her backside to pull her closer, close enough that she could feel how hard he was, even through their many layers.

She couldn't fight the urge to rub against his groin as their lips met again in a wet kiss, tongues sliding in and out of each other's mouths. Once they found a rhythm, Jon's hands swept upward, over her breasts. At first, he merely held them, letting the weight of them settle in his palms. The longer they kissed, though, the bolder he grew, even tugging the fabric of her bodice down, hinting he wanted a peek at what was under it.

Dany pulled away from him, catching her breath. She teased the dress from her shoulders, shivering again at the chill in the air.

"It's chilly," she said. "If I take this off, you'll have to keep me warm."

Jon didn't hesitate. "I promise," he agreed.

He watched intently as she dragged her bodice down past her ribs. Already, Jon was transfixed by the sight of her naked skin, his expression almost sick with lust. She let him look as she slid her arms through the sleeves to free them, breasts jiggling with each movement.

Staying true to his word to keep her warm, Jon cupped either mound, brushing his thumbs over her skin, making her feel hot all over. Her back arched, encouraging every touch to follow—hands squeezing, fingertips brushing circles until her nipples were almost as stiff as he was between her legs.

Leaning forward, he sucked the tip of her right breast between his lips, tongue swirling and nudging at her nipple. Threading her fingers through his hair, she held him at her bosom, her body rocking against his, desperate for more but patient to let him have his taste.

When he came up for air, she captured his face in either hand. "I want to see you, too," she begged.

Jon bit his lip, saying nothing but nodding his consent. He lifted a hand to his collar to loosen the laces there. Almost bumping his hand away in her keenness to likewise glimpse his naked skin, Daenerys took over, pulling the strings loose enough to peel the leather away entirely. She set to work on the linen layer beneath it, bunching the fabric up and dragging it straight over his head.

Her enthusiasm all but died the instant her eyes fell upon his bare chest. She placed a hand over his heart, her lids fluttering closed, eyes and nose suddenly stinging.

"Dany?" his voice quivered. "What is it? What's wrong?"

What was wrong had yet to happen at all. She opened her eyes again to an expanse of unblemished skin, a blinding absence of seven vicious scars that should've never had the chance to become part of such smooth terrain. From heart to abdomen, she dragged a hand down the path they'd someday take.

Jon flushed darker under the scrutiny, looking almost embarrassed or ashamed, shifting his body uncomfortably at the touch.

"Nothing at all is wrong," she promised, for at that moment, anyway, it was true. "You're gorgeous," she assured him, swallowing a sudden lump in her throat. "Perfect."

To better quell his sudden self-doubt, the queen leaned forward, almost flattening him against the bags of grain beneath them, pressing her body to his and taking several more tastes of his mouth and neck.

Her lips forged a path southward, deviating just once to drag her teeth over a nipple, his hard body trembling under her touch. Jon lifted himself up on his elbows to watch her descent, breath quickening as she ran her tongue down, over his navel.

The queen dropped from the edge of the grain bags to the floor beside Jon's legs, wrenching either foot from his boots and pushing them aside. Her hands found his calves, traveling back up his thighs until her fingertips dipped just below the band of his breeches. She met his eyes and asked, "May I?"

Jon pressed his lips together, nodding fervently.

Carefully, she dragged the roughspun fabric down over his thighs, the garment falling and pooling at his feet. She bent forward to nip at the newly exposed skin of his thigh, smoothing out his smallclothes to reveal his erection. Every muscle in Jon's body seemed to tense as she pressed her fingertips to the base of his cock, softly fanning them upward. He shuddered, sucking in a sharp breath as she wrapped her hand around him and began to stroke his length. A small wet spot formed at the tip of his cock, dampening his smallclothes. She decided then that she needed to taste him.

Dany licked her lips and pulled them the rest of the way down, Jon lifting his bottom to help accommodate. From behind a dark veil of curls, he watched as she hovered over him, lips parting to take her first taste. Jon threw his head back as her wet tongue slid slowly along his shaft, his chest heaving, his fingers dragging through his messy hair.

She slithered over him, angling her neck to lap at the salty, seeping tip before taking it between her lips, sure to keep the movements of her mouth slow and shallow.

He managed to endure a moment or two, his erratic breaths steadying—at least until she grabbed onto his hips and swallowed the full length of his cock, burying her nose right in his nest of coarse, dark curls.

Jon groaned upon hitting the back of her throat, his legs tensing and squeezing her body between them as he bucked his hips forward and spilled his seed. Dany coughed at the sudden spurt, sucking in a quick breath. A small flood of semen and saliva dripped from her mouth as she wrapped her lips tightly around him to finish him off.

The moment his body stopped convulsing, he looked down at her, frowning.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed. "I didn't mean to-"

"I'm glad you did," she said. "It felt good?"

He nodded. "Aye."

On her hands and knees, Dany crawled back onto the sacks of grain, placing kisses all over his body until she settled in next to him, resting her head on his chest. Jon wrapped his arm around her, absently stroking her back.

Upon regaining his wits, he turned his body to face her, a sly look in his eye.

"I want to make you feel good, too."

A cool draft hit her legs. It was then she realized that, with a sudden boldness, Jon had begun to pull up her skirts.

Daenerys felt her face flush hot since, somewhere beneath all the fabric, he began to caress her belly, his fingertips dipping just under her smallclothes on each new pass. The swiftness of her heartbeat, then, made her feel almost like a maid, herself, were it not for the urge to open her legs to him.

Quick to take a hint, Jon moved his hand lower, breath hitching when he found the unmistakable wet spot between her thighs. His deft fingers mapped her every crevice through the thin fabric. The sweetness of his touch left her panting.

Eager for more, Jon moved his hand up enough to slip it inside her smallclothes. Daenerys spread her legs wider as a lone finger slid over her wet slit, parting her walls as it dipped inside her.

He watched her squirm beneath him as he familiarized himself with her body. His mouth drifted to her ear as he added a second digit, hand pumping her full with two fingers. He whispered, "I want to see you, too."

The words struck her right in the gut, where she already ached for him.

"Help me out of my dress," she begged, her voice pitiful to her own ears.

His fingers slipped out of her, the emptiness only making the ache in her belly worse. Disoriented, she lifted herself up onto her elbows, but Jon was already on his feet and tugging the dress further down her hips, unfortunately dragging her right along with it.

Laughing, the queen twisted her body, searching for something on which to anchor herself. Jon joined in, chuckling as he helped her shimmy out of the garment, even stumbling a bit as they finally worked her free.

Somehow, her smallclothes hadn't budged, but as Jon pushed her dress aside and dropped to his knees before her, something told her they wouldn't be in place for long.

His fingers hooked over the fabric on her hips. Her heart began to pound as he pulled them down, eyes peeled on her body as he revealed the last of it, inch by inch.

She spread her legs wider. He licked his lips.

Just when she thought he'd mount her, he leaned forward to place a kiss squarely on her vulva, soft tongue sliding indiscriminately between and around her lower lips. The queen let out a surprised yelp—one that, judging by his confused expression, Jon was unsure how to decipher.

"You're very good at that," she assured him, lifting a hand to brush away the few curls that had fallen over his eyes.

At her encouragement, he dipped his head again and got to work. Nose buried in her mound, their gazes met from across her body. The fire in his eyes enkindled her from the inside out. The ache that was once deep in her belly pulsed and burned from head to toe.

" _Please_ ," she begged, needing just a little bit more…

Jon mistook her plea and tried to pull away. Grabbing hold of his head, she kept his mouth and nose pressed firmly to her cunt. Every muscle in her body tensed at once, save for one shaking leg…

Daenerys let out another yelp as a wave of relief tore through her body. Only when she was finished writhing did Jon finally pull away.

Wearing a rather smug grin, he settled in next to her, wrapping an arm around her naked body and pulling her close. Without his usual beard, she could see how red and puffy his lips were, and all at once, the ache in her belly returned. And if the erection poking into her hip were any indication, she supposed he still ached, too.

She turned onto her side, pushing him down beside her. When she moved to climb on top of him, Jon stopped her.

"Wait."

Her brow furrowed with worry. "What's wrong?"

"What if you get pregnant?"

_Then we would have another child_ , she thought, frowning because she knew it would be impossible. And while she knew this was not the same Jon that awaited her inside the tower—perhaps telling _this_ Jon the truth just might suffice. For now.

"I can't have children."

Jon simply stared at her, his eyes big and dark and unreadable.

"Does that upset you?"

"No," he shrugged. The answer was an honest one. "I never wanted any children."

The faces of their five children flashed before her eyes.

_Aem, Rhae, Alys, Lya, Ben._

It hurt so much to hear him say he never wanted them—no matter how unreasonable it was to take the word of a bastard boy who had long since been shamed out of having any hopes of his own.

Hers was a problem for another time, another place, another _Jon_.

"Do you still want to know?" she asked. "What it's like to be with someone?"

"No," he said, lips curving up into a smile. "I only want to know what it's like to be with you."

Already, there was a fondness in his eyes that warmed her—just as he had promised he'd do.

Lazily, Daenerys climbed on top of him, causing a wet squish as she settled in, his erection nestled between her lower lips. Jon swallowed, steadily watching her every move.

The queen reached down to peel the sweat-slicked hairs from his face so that she could see him clearly. Raising herself up, she hovered above him on her knees, hand dipping between her legs to stroke him. Jon bit his lip, craning his neck to watch as she guided the tip to her entrance. He let out a shuddering exhale once she sank onto his cock, groaning, herself, as he stretched her from the inside.

She leaned forward, belly and breasts brushing his smooth skin, their mouths melting together in another sultry kiss. His lips still tasted of her, and his tongue, of wine. Heat emanated from his flushed cheeks to hers, his hands almost hot enough to burn as they roamed her body.

Searching for something to hold onto to better aid her movements, her nails ripped straight through a threadbare bag of grain, seeds spilling all around them. Together, they erupted with laughter, brushing the mess away.

After wiping the grain from his hands, Jon cupped her bottom, then, butting his hips against her thighs as she rode him, eager to meet her every thrust. Taking as much of him as he had to give, she cried out in ecstasy, muffled only by his mouth on hers. His body tensed below her, even his tongue stilling between her lips as she finished him off, savoring the warmth that flooded inside her.

Dany collapsed on top of him, enjoying the rise and fall of his every breath, seed and sweat pooling between their bodies, itchy bits of grain sticking to their skin. For a long moment, they simply gazed into each other's eyes.

He whispered, "I wish we could stay like this forever."

"Me too."

Her mind reeled then—there was no telling how much longer they had, and yet, there was so much left to say.

"Jon," she said, voice shaking and eyes suddenly stinging with tears. "We don't have much longer."

"I was afraid you'd say that," he sighed, lifting a hand to sweep the hair off of her back. "Would you kiss me goodbye, Dany?"

Somehow, she managed to swallow the lump lodged in her throat, blinking her tears away as she nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

Jon's dark, glassy eyes grew wide.

"What-?"

His whisper sounded much too distant for being mere inches away from her. She knew then that she was about to lose him. Desperate, she leaned forward, using their final seconds together to grant his request—one last kiss. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pressed her lips to his, the vision quickly fading. Though she held onto him with all of her strength, he disappeared—like smoke between her fingers.

The cold storeroom fell away, and the queen heard what sounded like the patter of rain. In an attempt to find her balance, her palms scraped against cold stone, stockings just barely protecting her knees. It was then she spotted the scatter of seeds across the dusty floor of the tower.

Dany closed her eyes, the sight of the grain causing another flood of hot tears as she curled into a ball right there on the stone slab and wept. Just wept.

She felt the billow of a cloak as it rippled over her naked body, a pair of strong arms scooping her up inside the fabric. Through bleary eyes, she saw her husband's bearded face—seventeen years older but every bit as beautiful.

Daenerys gave no answers, and Jon had no questions to ask.

Her feet never touched the ground as her husband carried her all the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Where have I been? Oh, just living in dystopian 2020's America, enduring existential crises and facing my own mortality on a weekly basis. Turns out, writing 2.5k worth of smut during the apocalypse is really hard! (And not the good hard xD)
> 
> And because I know some will ask - I have not abandoned my other stories, I was just too depressed and anxious to write anything worthwhile. I'm nearly finished with Your Secret is Mine to Keep. That's up next. After that, I'm desperate to get updates of Dating in the Dark and King's Servant out. And then probably a part four to this series, the final in the installment (for now). I promise it will be less sad and closer in tone to part one.
> 
> Thank you for reading! ♥


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